Cuban style

*

The air at the Village Vanguard is thick with chisme about Fidel. "What do you think it means," the woman at the table next to us asks her companion, "now that Fidel has stepped down?"

I'm busy comparing the front page headlines, photographs, and stories in the Times, the Journal, and The Daily News (generally considered a liberal rag, it wins points for vivid imagery: "Fidel's 50 years of bloody rule come to an end..."). Francisco bought the papers because he's convinced they'll be valuable memorabilia our kids can cash in on 40 years from now on "Antiques Roadshow." Though I don't hear the man's answer, I'm aware the buzz around the room is a hundred variations on this same theme.

We've arrived early (a historic event in its own right), and have the best table in the house, seated right behind the piano. "What does that say?" I joke with Francisco, pointing at the gold lettering etched onto the black lacquer ... "Steinway?"

As drinks are served, the buzz increases and then, Rubalcaba's long fingers stroke the keys and everything melts away but this moment. The white executive sitting in front of the trumpet player has his eyes shut tight and is bobbing his head, not in rhythm exactly--you can't follow the rhythm like that--but in a way that you know he's feeling it. His daughter, who looks about 12, has her head thrown back and the most peaceful smile is spread across her face. Her eyes are closed, too, and you can tell she feels it. The European men at the table next to the family aren't smiling; in fact, they look overly serious and almost angry, but I know that deep down, they feel the music in their own way.

Rubalcaba sways and leans into his right arm, the elbow making an almost perfect right angle as he punches out a chord and then massages it to sweetness. I can hear him humming as he plays. There's a short Cuban phrase--you'd miss it if you didn't know how to recognize it-- seamed into a song that can't be compared to anything but Rubalcaba himself. The music isn't Cuban, but the style is 100% cubano.

And then, it happens: the moment when you know the musicians have entered the zone. The drummer looks over at Rubalcaba and smiles; the saxophonist ("He's the other Cuban," I whisper to Francisco-- not because I knew, but because I know) pulls his horn close and pushes himself into it, his feet shuffling back and forth. The bassist--almost always overlooked--has wrapped himself around his instrument. The trumpet player's finger tips are moving in a series so fast that I can't distinguish the pattern. The pleasure they take in the music, in the instruments, in each other is palpable, and once they feel it, they push for more. It's the moment they live for, I guess. The moment when music transcends current events, transcends politics, opinions, beliefs, and differences. The moment when the music is none of that. The moment when it's everything.

**
Gonzalo Rubalcaba will be playing at The Village Vanguard through Saturday. The Vanguard is unpretentious--there are three red wines on the menu--a Cabernet, a Merlot, and a Rhone--and lots of stains on the carpeted floor. It is also THE standard bearer of jazz in New York.